


Holding Hands with a God

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Series: An Affair in Edge City [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-22
Updated: 2010-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 23:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is a superhero. Castiel is a mild-mannered reporter trying to get an interview.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding Hands with a God

**Author's Note:**

> **Note** : This fic contains creepiness, suggestions of stalkerish behaviour, roughhousing, references to potential sexual violence.
> 
> This fic has translated into [Russian](http://ficbook.net/readfic/2767352)!

There’s no ‘official’ name for the man who’s taken to haunting Edge City’s roofs and darkened alleyways, but his hushed epithets are many: Ghost, Shadow, Alastor, Demon, El Diablo.

Castiel doesn’t put much stock into the names themselves, but he thinks the fact that there are so many is telling of the effect the vigilante has had on the city’s population. He can be anything, or nothing. He is everywhere, and nowhere. He isn’t real, or he’s the nightmare you thought could never exist.

The police’s official stance on the matter is that said Ghost is a fairytale used by the crime syndicates to keep the in-fighting down. Castiel could believe that, if he weren’t so very good at spotting the way Sergeant Henriksen’s mouth twitches when he’s reciting something he doesn’t believe in.

Besides, Castiel’s done his research. Alastor is very real.

It’s easy, so _painfully_ easy, to develop a clear roster of the man’s modus operandi, the places he frequents, the types of crimes he prefers to intercede in personally. Practically anyone with a sharp eye and enough patience to cross-reference police reports would be able to surmise the facts, and it’s sheer luck on Castiel’s part that no one’s made the effort to do so before him.

No, wait, not luck. Fear.

It’s _fear_ that has prevented anyone outside the precinct from making the effort to figure out El Diablo’s patterns. It’s that fear that has grown men whispering to each other to watch their own shadows, lest they one day turn on them, slitting their throats to watch their secrets bleed on the pavement.

Castiel does, in an abstract way, understand and appreciate that fear. It’s very clever marketing, and a part of Castiel wonders if the Shadow is responsible for some of the new urban legends that have been circulating the city like wildfire, doing half his job for him up front and making criminals wet their pants before he even makes an appearance. As strategy goes, that one would be excellent.

It’d be nice to know for sure, though.

“You’ve been here almost two hours,” comes a voice from somewhere above Castiel’s head. “Aren’t you bored yet?”

Castiel doesn’t jump. Sure, his stomach flips a little at the unexpected proximity of the voice – which is male or intended to give the impression of being male – but he doesn’t jerk or sputter or scream, because that would be unprofessional. Instead, Castiel keeps his voice level and eyes locked on the building in front of him, and responds, “Aren’t _you_?”

There’s silence at that.

So, the Demon is human enough to have a conversation. Castiel wonders if the Demon is human enough to be curious. It is a truth of Castiel’s life that everyone he’s ever met has been unnerved by his out-of-the-norm reactions to the world (which makes him a good reporter, all things considered), but what would be the response of a vigilante that uses surprise as an ally?

“You’re scaring the chickens,” the voice finally says, volume too low for Castiel to detect its emotional undercurrents. Is he irritated? Intrigued? Angry? “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“Unlike you,” Castiel agrees. The temptation is great to tilt his head up and find out if the stories of Shadow’s eyes being completely black are true, but no – Castiel has been patient so far, and he can be patient a little longer. “I was just listening to the police scanner, seeing if there was anything interesting going on tonight—”

“Sure you were, Mr. Sera.”

Of course Alastor would know his name.

“I apologize if I’m spoiling one of your projects.” Castiel tilts his head towards the building in front of them: a known front of one of the Azazel crime family’s sweatshops, but untouchable to the police. Just as Ghost observed, Castiel has been standing in the alleyway opposite for almost two hours, hoping for a sign of something. “I thought it would be educational to observe you in action.”

“And you would know about playing with danger,” he says. “Saw a lot of it in the Middle East.”

“Yes,” Castiel replies. So: Alastor knows about his international placements, Alastor does research on people with no suspected criminal ties, Alastor is alert enough to notice when someone’s been studying _him_.

Interesting.

“What do you want, Mr. Sera?” the Demon asks.

“If you know who I am and what I do, then you know what I want.” Castiel is positive, without even having to see his conversation partner’s face, that he has his full attention. “An hour of your time.”

There’s a soft, whispery sound, like breeze that shouldn’t be there. When the voice next speaks, its position has moved to over Castiel’s right shoulder. “Most people can’t take ten minutes of me.”

“I know, I’ve read the reports,” Castiel says.

There’s another sound – Castiel knows it’ll drive him crazy later trying to identify what it is – and then there’s the unmistakeable feel of a body standing right behind him. It’s not the immediate presence of body heat, or noise, or smell – it’s just _Shadow_ , uncloaking himself and making his presence known. _Is that something supernatural, technological, or psychological?_

Castiel stiffens, but does not move, when he feels a touch to the back of his neck. The pressure is slight and almost curious, as though the man is testing if Castiel is real. The touch is warm, but the texture completely wrong for skin – a gloved hand, perhaps?

“Why aren’t you afraid?” the Shadow asks, voice far too close, breath brushing the outer shell of Castiel’s ear.

“Only guilty people have anything to fear from you,” Castiel replies, though his thoughts are: _how does he know? Is he measuring my pulse? Is he watching me for physical ticks? Does he have experience in interrogation?_ “Nobody’s completely innocent, but I’ve done nothing that would herald your brand of justice.”

“ _My_ brand of justice?” That’s definitely a touch of amusement in the Demon’s voice. “Justice is justice.”

“No,” Castiel says. “You take up vigilantism because you think the system isn’t working. Maybe you believe in it, maybe you don’t, but the fact that you’re the one trawling the streets and deciding who’s worth punishing and who’s not – yes, that’s _your_ brand of justice, no one else’s.”

“You going to put words in my mouth now?”

“If you let me interview you, you can put the words in mine,” Castiel suggests. “And if I misconstrue anything you say... Well, you know where I live.”

“That I do,” Shadow says. He probably means it to sound ominous, but by now Castiel’s sure that Shadow knows where he lives, works and eats breakfast on Tuesdays. Castiel supposes that such knowledge in the hands of a stranger would be terrifying for other people, and agrees that it’d be a very useful tactic in throwing people off-balance.

Castiel decides to go for it. “One hour.”

“Ten minutes.”

“I’ll take it,” Castiel says quickly, not caring that it makes him sound desperate. Ghost knows exactly what he’s here for, so there’s no point being coy. “Any time that’s convenient for you.”

“I’ll find you.”

There’s that same sound again – a brush of wind that shouldn’t be there – and Castiel knows that Alastor has moved on. He could still be watching, perhaps wanting to see what Castiel is going to do next, but the conversation itself is over.

Castiel allows himself a satisfied smile.

He returns to the car on lighter steps. There may be no definite date for the interview, and it may even end up being ten minutes of Shadow growling random things at him from a dark corner somewhere, but it’s miles better than anything anyone’s gotten so far.

Castiel’s article, when he writes it, is going to shake things up considerably.

Sam’s still there waiting for him in the driver’s seat, only putting down his Blackberry when Castiel opens the door and slides inside.

“Giving up so soon?” Sam asks as he turns the engine on. “Or did he actually show up and knock you on your ass?”

With no small amount of satisfaction, Castiel says, “I have an appointment.”

Sam looks at him sharply. “What?”

“It was merely a matter of persuasion,” Castiel says. He leans back in his seat, letting the jolt of adrenaline settle into quiet pride that after months of research he’d finally managed to get the Demon’s attention and—

No, ‘Demon’ is wrong. All the names are wrong. The person he met tonight wields nightmares as a weapon, but he himself is not one. He uses fear, surprise and knowledge to his advantage, throwing his target off-balance so to force them to reveal their weak spot, like a...

Like a Hunter.

“Hunter,” Castiel says aloud. “That’s it.”

“Wait, Castiel, are you serious?” Sam asks. “You actually got him to talk to you?”

Castiel turns to his partner, scowling. There’s no call for Sam to be staring at him in disbelief, as though it’s _so_ impossible that Castiel could’ve persuaded the Edge City Hunter for a potential interview. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, Sam.”

“No, it’s not that...” Sam looks away quickly, putting the car in gear and blinking rapidly in unwarranted bewilderment. “He can’t... I mean, he doesn’t...”

“But what does anyone really know about him?” Castiel points out. Sam doesn’t reply, so he adds, “Nothing. I’m going to fix that.”

* * *

Castiel doesn’t tell their boss about the potential interview, of course. He doesn’t have anything concrete to offer, and despite Castiel’s personal belief that the Edge City Hunter will come through on his promise, he knows Zachariah well enough to know that he’ll get a yelling if he promises something sensational with nothing to back up his claims.

“Good call,” Sam says, when Castiel mentions that to him the next day at work. “I mean... Better to be safe than sorry, right?”

It doesn’t surprise Castiel that Sam is skeptical (a good dose of skepticism is needed in any reporter worth their salt) but the sharpness of his protests is a curious thing. If Castiel had the time he could delve into that, perhaps ask Sam to clarify his stance, but right now Castiel has to sort through his research and draft the questions he’d like to ask the Edge City Hunter. Ten minutes is not a lot of time to have with his subject, so he has to make every second count.

He spends most of the morning doing exactly that, while Sam putters elsewhere and Zachariah screams at people around him.

Castiel only pauses when he sees a denim-encased pair of legs appear around the edge of his computer screen, hip pressing against the side of his desk.

“Your brother’s getting some photos corrected downstairs,” Castiel says without looking up. “He should be done in a few minutes.”

“Hi to you, too, Cas,” Dean says, sounding just as annoyingly upbeat as he always does. “Someone’s busy today.”

“With work,” Castiel replies, pressing the Backspace button a little harder than necessary to delete an extraneous line. Dean’s poor sense of timing is impeccable; Castiel needs to _focus_. “A concept that appears to elude some people.”

“You wound me,” Dean sighs.

Castiel stops himself from rolling his eyes, as that would merely provoke Dean even more.

Sam Winchester is a good partner to have. He is passionate, intelligent and always up for a lively debate, so it’s unfortunate that he’s saddled with an incredibly nosey brother who always gets up in his sibling’s business. It’s nice that the brothers are close, but Castiel honestly doesn’t understand why Dean spends so much time in the building when he’s supposedly a construction contractor based downtown. (Castiel’s asked; Dean always replies that he has a lax schedule, whatever that means.)

It’s one of the inevitable hazards of having Sam as a partner, Castiel supposes, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still be annoyed by it.

“Can you please not do this today?” Castiel asks, scratching a pen through a few lines on his notepad. “I have something important to work on.”

“Yeah, like that’s something new,” Dean says. “Hey, Sarah!”

Sarah waves cheerfully from her desk, but Castiel’s hope that Dean will decide to bother her instead is dashed when Dean shuffles closer and tries to peer at his notebook. “Watcha doing?”

“Sam!” Castiel sighs with relief when the familiar figure appears around the corner. “Your brother’s harassing me. Please make him go away.”

“Geez, I can take a hint,” Dean says, backing off just before Sam manages to righteously swoop down on him. His smile drops to something less smarmy and he turns around to greet Sam with a manly one-armed hug.

Castiel blinks at Dean’s back a few times, surprised by how easy that was. Normally it takes at least the threat of violence before Dean backs off. Before he can decide whether to comment on it or not, his computer makes the little _ding_ of an email coming in, and he automatically clicks over to his inbox.

The sender’s email is blocked and there’s no subject, so Castiel should be tagging it as spam, but the text reads: TONIGHT, ELEVEN. NO RECORDING EQUIPMENT.

Once again, Castiel finds himself grateful for his innate poker face.

“Sam, I’ve got to go out on an errand,” Castiel says as he shuts down his computer. Sam narrows his eyes at him suspiciously, but Castiel doesn’t have time to deal with that right now. He grabs the questions he’s drafted so far, glancing over them quickly and mentally listing out the things he has to do for tonight. The email didn’t suggest a place so either he’ll receive another communication closer to the meeting time, or it’ll be at Castiel’s apartment.

Better be prepared.

“Castiel…” Sam says carefully.

“Tell Zachariah I’m following a lead,” Castiel says, pulling his jacket on. “I’ll let you know if I need you.”

“Hot date?” Dean asks, far too loudly. Sarah, Chuck and Becky all look in Castiel’s direction, and Crowley makes an enthusiastically rude gesture with his hands that’s not worth acknowledging.

Instead, Castiel looks at Dean sharply, irritated by the touch of jealousy in Dean’s voice that is inappropriate and unwarranted. Dean merely grins at him, eyes wide with faux innocence, as though that would endear him to Castiel; considering how often he’s tried it over the past few months, he should’ve learned by now that it vehemently _doesn’t_.

Dean flirts with anything that moves, and Castiel knows better than to be flattered.

To Castiel’s relief, Sam turns his attention to Dean and sternly says, “Dean, stop it.” Castiel nods his gratitude but Sam doesn’t see it as he’s too busy pulling Dean aside for a private conversation Castiel has no desire to know the topic of.

Instead, Castiel grabs the last of his notes and makes a beeline for the elevator. As soon as the doors close, it hits him with clarity what is on the agenda for tonight.

After all these months of painstaking research and coaxing reluctant people to speak up, Castiel is finally getting the chance to interrogate the source.

The Hunter, _at long last_.

There’s no one in the elevator, so Castiel silently punches the air.

* * *

Castiel isn’t new to the game. He’s seen things, been places, talked to people that regular folk can’t even imagine exist in the real world. Castiel knows what he’s getting into and he’s not going to change his mind, no matter how many text messages Sam sends him as the evening turns into night while Castiel waits in the quiet of his apartment.

The messages get increasingly personal, too, rising to the familiar accusation of Castiel being obsessed, which isn’t true. Castiel is always like this when he’s on a story, but Sam doesn’t know that because they’ve only known each other for as long as they’ve been partners, which isn’t even half a year at this point.

 _You need back-up. Where are you?_ is Sam’s latest.

Castiel does respond to that one, giving Sam a location downtown. He sends the message at ten to eleven, just to give Sam enough time to get there and try to find him before he starts messaging or calling again.

As for the person Castiel actually is focused on, there have been no other attempts at communication from him. Castiel’s laptop is open on the desk, his landline is silent, and Castiel combed his apartment for messages as soon as he got back from clearing some things with his contacts. He combed it again after picking up dinner from the Mexican place across the street, but still – nothing. Castiel assumes that he’s supposed to wait.

He’d been tempted to sneak a microphone or two around the place, but The Hunter would have ways around it (some police reports mention the inexplicable tampering of security cameras where such a thing shouldn’t have been possible), or The Hunter would refuse to show up at all. It’s better to play it safe, so Castiel had acquiesced to the request.

Castiel sips his drink, dinner long since eaten and cleared, and watches the wall clock’s hands tick to the end of the hour.

“It’s eleven.”

It’s a good thing Castiel was sitting at his desk, or his glass would have fallen to the floor.

He stares, breath caught, as a shadow peels away from the corner at the end of his kitchenette slash laundry area, edges delineating into a humanoid shape.

There’d been no other movement in the apartment. The doors are closed, the windows shut tight, the vents too small for any grown human being to get through. _Nothing_ has moved since Castiel last walked through the entrance because he’s been _watching_. So that means either The Hunter really is a supernatural being with the ability to walk through walls, or…

Or he’s been here all this time.

“Your building’s security is shit,” The Hunter says. The eyewitness sketches Castiel obtained appear to be accurate: he’s dressed in full black but of unidentifiable material, hem of his jacket long past the waistline and sleeves tight all the way down his arms to the gloved hands (for ease of movement?), face mostly hidden by a custom pullover mask. The only visible skin is around The Hunter’s mouth, but even that is dipped in shadow. “You should be concerned about that.”

Castiel shrugs, hoping that his poker face is still in place despite the fact that The Hunter has won this round, at least psychologically. “I doubt even the First National Bank would be able to keep you out if you put your mind to it.”

The Hunter stands there, so still that it’s easy to see how he can pass undetected if he so wanted. He looks just under six feet, but there’s a concave depth of his torso that means that he might be slouching. (Hiding his true height? Saving the effect for people who deserve it?)

“You’re not going to write anything about me,” The Hunter finally says. “Because I don’t exist.”

“Oh,” Castiel says. “I suppose you’re a figment of a mass hallucination. One that I share, apparently.”

“You’re very smart,” The Hunter says. (He’s standing so still. What type of background would require someone to be able to stand so still?) “You know that I prefer it when people can’t be sure if I’m real or not. Like they say about the Devil, the greatest trick he ever pulled was—”

“I know the saying,” Castiel says, and The Hunter starts, as though he’s not used to be interrupted. “But you’re not the Devil. You’re a man, and you’re a vigilante running around our city playing judge, jury and almost executioner—”

“You’re _not_ going to write about me,” The Hunter hisses. His voice, as it was in the alley yesterday, is in a low whisper, masking most of the tells that would make a voice identifiable.

“Then why did you come here?” Castiel asks. “You could’ve just said that yesterday, or sent me a message. Why do it in person?”

“So you know,” The Hunter says. Before Castiel can ask _know what_ , The Hunter is right up in his face, silent and almost inhumanly fast.

The stories of his eyes being full-black are true.

Castiel just barely manages to hold his ground, staring back into those eyes without blinking. It takes him a moment to remember to breathe.

“Hypothetical question, Mr. Sera. There’s a stranger in your apartment,” The Hunter says, the lower part of his mask moving with the suggestion of a smirk. “What do you do?”

“I’m not as helpless as you think I am,” Castiel says. (God, his eyes, it’s like staring into absolute darkness, no wonder people who’ve seen him up close forget everything else but the terror of the moment.) “As you said… I’m no stranger to dangerous situations.”

He’s fast, but Castiel sees it coming, ducking away from the fist that’d been aimed at his jaw.

The Hunter tries to grab him but Castiel twists away, kicking out with a foot that The Hunter leaps avoids easily.

Castiel’s blood is roaring in his ears and his heart hammering in his chest, but his muscle memory and regular kickboxing proves reliable. He eludes one attempt after another The Hunter makes to grab him, and successfully blocks an elbow to the head that would’ve put him out for sure.

There’s a point in here somewhere, and Castiel finds it when The Hunter growls and does this _thing_ with his whole body that’s too fast to see clearly (definitely martial arts training) and Castiel ends up face-down on the floor, arms twisted behind his back and struggling to breathe for the grown man pressing him into the hardwood.

“What would you do now, Mr. Sera?” The Hunter says, breath warm and tone cold. “You’d be dead.”

“I was holding back,” Castiel says. He twists, trying and failing to free his hands from the iron grip holding them in place. “If you were someone malicious I would’ve fought back actively, not merely tried to avoid being hurt.”

There’s a snort of disbelief. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Of course,” Castiel says simply. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

The Hunter is quiet for a long moment, revealing nothing of his thoughts despite Castiel’s craving of clues. All Castiel can hear is the Hunter's breathing, which is slow and steady in contrast to Castiel’s almost wheezing as his chest is pressed tight against the floor.

Then, carefully, a hand touches the back of Castiel’s head, brushing over his hair.

“You sure about that?” The Hunter asks, shifting his body over Castiel’s.

“What—” Castiel jerks in shock.

He could be wrong, but that feels like an erection pressing into his lower back. The Hunter moves again, rolling his hips that they rest just on top of Castiel’s ass and, yes, that is definitely an erection.

“You wouldn’t,” Castiel says.

“How do you know?” he growls. There’s very clear anger and frustration in his voice now, the first real show of emotion Castiel’s heard from him so far.

“Because you’re a good man,” Castiel says. He feels oddly calm despite the logical danger that exists in this moment. “You’re trying to scare me. To stop me from writing your article. Or to stop me from looking for you. Or for believing in you.”

“Why would you believe in me? You don’t _know_ me.”

There’s a tremor in the words, so faint that Castiel wouldn’t have detected it if he hadn’t been straining to listen.

“I am very good at knowing when people lie to me,” Castiel says. “I’m not boasting. It’s a gift I was born with and saved my life countless times. You’ve done some terrible things in your life, some you were forced to and some of your own free will, and I know you think that makes you the nightmare you project on others, but that’s not the whole picture. Beneath it all, you are a good person—”

“I’m not—”

“You’re a _good person_ , and you’re worth believing in.” Castiel takes a deep breath, and then lets his body go slack, no longer fighting.

There’s a choked groan that almost sounds like “ _Cas_ ”, but Castiel can’t be sure because The Hunter’s pulling away abruptly.

Castiel rolls over on to his back, but The Hunter is already at the window, pushing it open and climbing on to the sill. “Wait,” he calls out.

“You shouldn’t trust me,” The Hunter says, face turned away.

“I didn’t say I trusted you,” Castiel replies. “I said I believe in you. It’s not the same thing.”

“Write whatever the hell you want,” The Hunter growls, and then he’s gone.

* * *

Castiel does end up writing an article, but it’s a speculative piece using the information he’d spent months collating pre-personal encounter, and doesn’t mention anything Castiel may have learned from his two brief meetings with its subject.

He wouldn’t be able to back any of it up, anyway.

“This is actually coherent,” Zachariah says when he reads it. “Puts all the facts and myths in a single piece and leaves it up to the reader to decide if he’s real or not. I like the new name: The Hunter. Catchy, straight to the point, with none of that spooky mumbo-jumbo nonsense. The writing itself, though… needs a more human angle. Your writing has no soul, Sera.”

“I’m sure Sam can fix it up,” Castiel suggests. Sam smiles weakly, accepting the draft article from their boss without protest.

“This is really good,” Sam says after Zachariah leaves. “One of the best things you’ve done.”

Castiel drops into his chair, tired. “It’s the most I could do with what I have.”

“I’m sorry he didn’t show up,” Sam whispers, ducking his head so that no one else will hear. “But I’m not surprised. I don’t think he’s the sort of guy who likes publicity.”

“I know,” Castiel says, waving the topic away. “Let’s not talk about it.”

It’s easier to tell Sam that it never happened.

In many ways, it’d be easier if it never happened at all, because what Castiel learned that night has nothing to do with the journalistic objectives he’d listed out beforehand. He knew The Hunter had to be human, but he didn’t know he’d be _that_ human, with wants and doubts and aching self-loathing.

He’s tried to stop replaying the scene over and over in his head, but it’s there, constantly nagging at his thoughts. It had been so _hard_ to remain neutral while writing his piece, and the process was made worse by the fact that Castiel’s subconscious had latched on to certain aspects of the encounter with inappropriate fervor. More than once he’d woken up from sleep confused and shaking from a dream of that strong body on top of his and that warm breath on his ear. It was bad enough to have dreamed about it, but the body wants what it wants and Castiel’d shamefully ended up sliding his hands into his shorts while thinking about a man whose face he’s never seen.

It’s inappropriate and unprofessional. Better that Castiel’s article about him be the one and only.

“I’m going to get an early lunch,” Castiel says, not in the mood to be in the office. It’s too noisy, and now he has that article out of his system, he needs a little peace and quiet.

It’s when he’s crossing the lobby that he sees Dean loitering near the main doors, reading a magazine.

Castiel slows down his steps, retroactively realizing that it’s been a while since he’s seen Dean around. He hadn’t noticed Dean’s absence, but now that he’s in that downward slope that always follows finishing a draining article, he can look back and see the gaps where Dean would have usually been buzzing around the office in his free time.

“Hello, Dean,” he says.

“Hey,” Dean says, glancing up briefly before going back to reading.

That’s wrong. Castiel looks at Dean, unexpected guilt rooting him to the spot. Sarah has scolded him so many times about brushing Dean off callously, but it’s not like Dean is harboring any false hopes of having an actual chance. Castiel asks, “Are you upset with me?”

“What?” Dean starts. “Of course not.”

He’s telling the truth. And yet, that’s not the whole story. Castiel can read it in the way he’s trying so hard to hold his body in a relaxed, innocuous pose, as though the topic means nothing. But all that only adds up to Castiel’s knowing that this means _something_ to Dean, and he _is_ upset, but not at Castiel.

At himself?

Castiel steps closer, worried that he might’ve finally pushed Dean too far. “Dean?”

Dean inhales sharply, green eyes finally jumping to meet his. The smile on his face could almost even pass for genuine. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, Cas.”

Oh.

Oh God.

As a journalist, he knows the importance of not leaping to conclusions. He knows that even the hardest facts need to be scrutinized.

But sometimes instinct – the part that gives him the inexplicable ability to detect when a person is lying – screams with a conclusion that goes against every logical thought and hands him an answer so clear and perfect it’s as firm a truth in his head as knowing that the sky is blue. It makes no sense, Castiel _knows_ it makes no sense, but it’s always been right. Always.

Castiel would never have suspected this before, but that’s because he’d never met The Hunter in person before.

But now it fits. Everything fits.

Shadow and mask and low voice be damned, Castiel knows without question that standing before him right now is the man who broke into his apartment and tried to scare him into giving up.

“Oh,” Castiel says.

He can see the moment Dean understands, his face subtly shifting into an expression Castiel’s never seen on him before. He’s only been witness to Dean grinning, smirking, laughing – but never cautiously blank, a place in between the civilian that is his everyday mask and the demonic hunter that is his nighttime mask.

“Nice,” Dean mutters wryly. “You’ve never even given me a second glance before, but now…” He grins sarcastically.

“That’s because you’re a liar and a fake,” Castiel says, amazed that he can still speak for all that his brain is rapidly sorting through everything he’s ever known about Dean and The Hunter, slotting the two together. “From the first moment I met you, you lied to me.”

“About what?” Dean asks incredulously.

Castiel remembers meeting Dean that first time. It had been at a dinner celebrating Sam’s promotion, and since Castiel had been newly minted as his partner, he’d been invited along. Dean had been there, and Sam had been the one to introduce them. Castiel remembers the way Dean had stood up from his chair to greet him, and Castiel had thought: _ah,_ Sam’s brother is a gentleman, eyes kind and smile genuine, but then—

“I asked what you do,” Castiel says. “And you said you were in construction. But that was a lie, wasn’t it?”

“It’s not a lie,” Dean protests.

“It is.” Castiel leans in closer, heart hammering wildly and scarcely able to believe that he’s having this conversation, secrets overlaid on top of otherwise innocuous words. “Because that’s not what you _really_ do, isn’t it? That’s just the front. I may not have known what your secret was, but I knew you had one, and whatever it was, it was big enough to make you lie to me in our _very first_ conversation. That does taint one’s impression of you.”

Dean stares at him, anger melting into surprise. “ _That’s_ the reason you’ve been…?”

Castiel nods, exhaling shakily. No wonder it’d been impossible to figure Dean out. It was clear to Castiel that Dean was honest and kind, yet he always acted brash and inconsiderate; how could Castiel reconcile the act with what was real? Dean was, by all accounts, a _good man_ , and yet he rang all sorts of alarms in Castiel’s head that screamed: _liar, fake, untrustworthy_.

“You’re a good man,” Castiel whispers.

“Don’t say that,” Dean chokes out hoarsely. “Don’t you remember when I—”

“Do I scare you that much?” Castiel asks. Everything makes so much sense, he’s almost dizzy from the clarity of it all. “That you would want me to stay away from you so badly?”

“Jesus Christ, Cas.” Dean takes a shaky step backward. “How do you know that? How the fuck do you know that?”

“You wanted me to want this side of you,” Castiel says, gesturing at Dean as he is. “So you were angry that I was drawn to the other side – the side that you’re ashamed of. You don’t need to do that, Dean, not when I can want both.”

Dean shakes his head rapidly, trying to brush off the reality of Castiel’s words, so Castiel steps forward, grabbing the edges of his jacket and rising up to kiss Dean’s mouth.

Dean makes a soft, shocked sound, huffing breath against Castiel’s lips. His hands are shaking when they come to rest around Castiel’s wrists, and then Dean is kissing back, so softly and so carefully, like he can’t believe he’s allowed to. Castiel takes the kisses and offers some of his own, coaxing Dean with lips and tongue to trust the truth of this.

Loud clapping makes them jump apart.

“I knew all that persistence would pay off,” Crowley says. He’s the only one of their audience openly grinning at them, the other bystanders having enough taste to pretend to be mulling about. Crowley only stops clapping to pull out his Blackberry, saying, “Sorry, got to let the betting pool know that you’ve finally jumped the shark.”

“You’re an asshole, Crowley,” Dean snaps, but his fingers are gentle where they’re stroking the backs of Castiel’s hands.

“You better go to your brother,” Castiel says. He leans close in a show of kissing Dean on the cheek, whispering, “I’ll leave my window open later for you.”

Dean still looks stunned, but he manages to say, “Okay.”

* * *

It’s one thing to have a confrontation in broad daylight, in a public place, with people all around you. It’s another to have it in the intimacy of a quiet, private space.

Castiel has no illusions about where this is going, or how risky it is.

Yet God forgive him, he wants it. He’d never allowed himself to desire Dean before, and he’d never considered desiring The Hunter at all, but the overlap has done something to Castiel, broken a dam in his psyche that he’d never known existed. Now all he can think about is how Dean is so brilliant and broken and utterly beautiful, and it’s fucked up that Castiel would want that, but he does.

Perhaps that says something about Castiel’s own state of mind, but he can’t be bothered to care right now.

The phone rings just as Castiel is changing his coffee filters (keeping himself busy while waiting for Dean, where is Dean, why isn’t he here yet) and it’s embarrassing how quickly he goes for the receiver.

“ _I read your article,_ ” Dean says. “ _Swiped it from Sam._ ”

“Oh?” Castiel smiles. “Any comments?”

“ _Not really,_ ” Dean admits. “ _You got some stuff wrong, but a lot of it is freakishly correct._ ”

“I’m good at what I do,” Castiel says. Dean snorts, and in the background there’s the odd double-layered sound of a siren. “Dean, where are you?”

“ _Climbing the side of your building._ ”

Castiel pointedly does not look at his windows. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you took the elevator?”

“ _Depends on your definition of easier._ ” There’s a rush of wind on the other end – Dean swinging over something, maybe? “ _Look, Cas, I’ve got to… I’ve got to know what you want. I don’t want to make a mistake._ ”

“I want…” Castiel closes his eyes and thinks. “I want to learn to trust you.”

“ _I don’t know if anyone can,_ ” Dean says. “ _I’m not a… I’m fucked up, Cas. You have no idea how much._ ”

“Then let me find out, and decide for myself,” Castiel says. “But… only if you’re okay with that. I don’t want any secret you’re not willing to give me.”

For a few seconds there’s only the faint sounds of traffic as Dean climbs. “ _I promise never to break into your apartment ever again,_ ” he says. “ _Well, unless you ask me to._ ” He sounds flippant, but Castiel can hear a collective of other promises beneath the obvious one.

“Have you ever broken in here before that night?” Castiel asks.

“ _No_.” Dean’s telling the truth.

“Did you ever think about doing it?”

Dean inhales sharply. “ _Yes._ ” Also the truth.

It’s so very wrong to be aroused by that, but Castiel can feel desire curling low in his stomach, making his knees weak and forcing him to lean forward against the kitchenette counter.

“After you left that night,” Castiel says slowly, “Did you masturbate to thoughts of me?”

“ _Fuck, no!_ ” Dean exclaims, and there’s a sudden stop of wind in the background, as though he’s halted his movements. “ _Why would you ask – no. Hell no, Cas, I threw up. You can’t – I wouldn’t –_ no.”

God, Castiel wants him.

“It’s okay,” Castiel says reassuringly.

“ _It’s not!_ ” Dean shouts. “ _That’s not okay, I can’t – I don’t know what I was—_ ”

“Dean, you didn’t do anything.” Castiel takes a shaky breath, guiltily palming his crotch. “And if I knew who you were – if I knew what I know now – I wouldn’t have let you leave. I would have begged you to stay and finish it.” He finishes that off with a low gasp when he pops open the button of his pants, relieving the pressure off his erection.

“ _Hang up, Cas,_ ” The Hunter says.

Castiel puts the phone down. It’s a relief to be able to do so because now he has both hands free, using them to brace against the edge of the counter and hang his head forward. He’s uncomfortably turned on, flushed with shame by how illogical it is.

There’s a soft _click_ , a brush of cool wind, and Castiel knows that he’s no longer alone.

He starts to turn, but fingers on his waist stop him. The fingers are warm, gloved, and very real.

“This is such a bad idea.” It’s strange to hear The Hunter’s controlled cadences in Dean’s normal voice. Castiel reaches down to take Dean’s hands, tugging the gloves off. “And I have lots of bad ideas, I can tell you that right now.”

“I have bad ideas, too,” Castiel says, tilting his head back and sighing when he feels Dean lips on his neck. “I’m the one who staked out crime hotspots in the hopes of seeing you in person.”

“That’s true.” Dean’s hands, calloused and scarred, tentatively touch the planes of Castiel’s stomach.

“And I’m the one who invited you here,” Castiel reminds him. “Twice.”

Dean’s nose brushes his ear. “I’m going to have to do up a security system for you, seriously.”

This is taking too long, and Castiel _wants_.

He presses back against Dean, who jerks and tries to pull away. “ _Dean_ ,” he gasps, grabbing on to Dean’s arms to hold him in place. He grinds his ass back against Dean’s crotch indignantly, feeling a jolt of satisfaction when he finds Dean’s answering erection.

“Are you sure…?” Dean chokes out.

“God, Dean, yes, _please_ ,” Castiel grabs one of Dean’s hands and pushes it down into his pants. Dean curses when he discovers how hard Castiel is, gripping his cock and swiping a thumb across the leaking head. Castiel quickly shoves his pants down, baring himself and hoping Dean gets the damn hint already.

“Cas, _fuck_ ,” Dean growls. There’s the sound of Velcro being ripped, and then a hot cock is pressing between Castiel’s ass cheeks, sliding over skin.

Castiel feels drugged, high on something unnamable that burns his blood and makes him push back shamelessly against Dean’s erection. It’s never been like this, so hot and desperate and aching, as though Castiel will go mad if he doesn’t come right now in Dean’s arms.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” Castiel pants. He keens and archs his back when Dean fists his cock, the tightness of Dean’s fingers perfect. Dean is so strong, one arm wrapping around his chest to hold him in place while he jacks Castiel off with expert fingers, making Castiel’s whole body tremble with pleasure.

“Push against me, please, come on,” Castiel says, grunting when Dean rubs against him, the silken skin of his cock brushing over Castiel’s hole. “Yes, like that, please, more, Dean, _please_.”

They rut furiously together, Castiel caught between Dean’s cock and his hand. He’s so close he can taste it, the orgasm pooling low in his stomach, but it’s not enough. It’s not enough, not nearly enough, so he thrashes against Dean, begging and scratching fingers against the counter uselessly until his body finally seizes up.

Castiel cries out wordlessly as he comes, cock pulsing in Dean’s hand. He rides it out for as long as he can, writhing in Dean's arms until the pleasure finally ebbs away.

“Oh, _Dean_ ,” Castiel gasps, throat hoarse. He’s stunned and shaking; he’s never behaved like that during sex, and is more than a little unhinged by Dean’s effect on him. Though his legs are still weak, he manages to turn around, needing to see Dean’s face right now.

The mask is off, discarded to the floor, and Dean looks as shocked as Castiel feels, eyes wild and face lined with sweat.

“Cas,” Dean whispers. His eyes are dark, but with arousal – this is _him_ , not The Hunter.

Castiel grabs his shoulders and kisses him with everything he has, putting into motion the irrational, impassionate want that’s turning everything inside Castiel upside down. Dean responds in kind, devouring Castiel’s mouth and clawing at Castiel’s body like it’s everything he’s ever wanted. It’s rough and delicious and Castiel can barely breathe but he doesn’t care.

After a few false starts Castiel manages to slide his hand between their bodies and find Dean’s cock, pumping it firmly. “Inside me, come on,” Castiel hisses against Dean’s mouth. “I have lube—”

“No, can’t wait—” Dean gasps, thrusting desperately into Castiel’s hand. “Wanted you – too long – can’t–” He throws his head back and snarls, shoving Castiel hard against the counter as he comes.

Castiel holds him through it, dropping kisses on Dean’s neck and chin and cheek. Dean’s body shakes for a long time until he finally slumps, Castiel releasing his cock and catching him under the arms before he drops any further.

“Hey, hey,” Castiel says gently, nipping Dean’s panting mouth. “It’s all right. It’s good, we’re good.”

“Mother fucking what, Cas,” Dean mumbles clumsily. He pulls back a little, staring at Castiel with a stunned, dumbfounded expression. “What the hell are you?”

“I’m supposed to be asking you that,” Castiel says, laughing softly. He squeezes his arms around Dean’s torso, unwilling to let him go. “We’re fourteen floors up, how do you scale a building that high?”

“It’s not that hard if the wind isn’t strong.” Dean smiles the first soft, happy smile Castiel’s seen in ages. It’s honest and vulnerable and _real_ , and Castiel can’t ask for anything more. Dean says softly, “You can ask anything you want about me, about what I do. What do you want to know?”

Castiel considers this for a moment. “Right now? Nothing.” And he tilts his head up for another kiss.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Holding Hands with a God](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5699968) by [exmanhater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater)




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